


Silverflint drabbles o' the week

by twofrontteethstillcrooked



Category: Black Sails
Genre: M/M, fluff fluff, ongoing, snippetfic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-03
Updated: 2019-08-13
Packaged: 2019-09-06 12:47:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 7,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16832926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twofrontteethstillcrooked/pseuds/twofrontteethstillcrooked
Summary: #silverflintdow snippets a la SilverflintDaily at tumblr**which is, yknow, having A Month, so I thought it might be wise to put these over here too, just in case





	1. trust, energy, mother (15 Oct. 2018)

“So, this is my mother.”

With that, Silver handed Flint a jar of pale, bubbly goo and then looked at him half-expectantly.

It was the heady scent of fresh, healthy yeast that energized Flint out of his somewhat horrified and questioning train of thought. 

“You bake?” he asked, wincing as he heard how incredulous he sounded.

“I’ve been practicing for several months,” Silver said. His smile was small, just this side of shy. “Read an article that said it was good for relieving stress. They neglected to mention that if the bread didn’t turn out to be edible, that was at least as stressful as whatever you were trying to alleviate. The first few loaves were…not terrific.” He shook his head wryly. “But things improved. A friend recommended I make my own sourdough mother and let it develop over a few weeks, so. The latest results have been pretty good, I think.” He cleared his throat and looked down. “If you’d like to try some sometime and give me some feedback.”

It was slightly disconcerting to see him be less than confident. In the five months since he’d conned Gates into a dishwashing gig, and subsequently Billy into helping with prep and occasional waiting, Silver had evolved into Flint’s most surprising kitchen asset by being a quick learner with a charm offensive that managed, somehow and for reasons Flint still didn’t entirely understand, to pull Flint’s staff together more effectively than Flint threatening line cooks and waitstaff within an inch of their lives had ever done.

(Well, okay. Maybe not all aspects of Silver’s successes were incomprehensible.) 

Silver, waiting for a response, was pretending, Flint saw, to be nonchalant. It struck Flint that Silver had trusted him twice over, by inviting him to his apartment in the first place and by telling him about whatever this still-new exploration of bread was. He imagined Silver’s strong hands shaping dough into a lovely smooth boule, or a hefty batard. He imagined Silver’s strong hands–

Flint shook himself to attention. Good bread baked in-house was an important addition to any restaurant. Yes. That was it. It was his obligation as a thoughtful chef and small business owner to encourage education.

“Would you be interested in baking something for me tonight?” Flint asked, pleased beyond all sense that his voice didn’t crack. He tried for a genuine, interested, non-skeevy sort of smile. “Or _with_ me? I mean, I could help. Since we’re closed tonight and everything.”

“Sure. That’d be nice.” Silver’s expression had gone just a little sly around the eyes. 

All casualness, Flint glanced down into the jar. Silver’s mother had formed a row of tiny bubbles that looked just like a knowing smirk.


	2. pirate, grace, fire (22 Oct. 2018)

Trusting no one was around to see him enter the cabin, Silver made sure to close the door fully before sighing with something like relief and lighting a lantern. Once he sat, his lower back and hips groaned in surprise, the way the ship’s boards were doing in this stretch of sea, creaking as if to blot out all other thought. He unstrapped the peg and let it fall to the floor with an inelegant thump. His leg jumped like fire for a moment, a bright crackle. He picked up a nearby book off the desk and focused on the cracked leather spine, the musty pages with their slightly crooked edges. He opened the novel where the silk ribbon with a frayed end marked the last spot Flint must’ve read. Silver scanned the page and then the next. The pain receded. 

Flint plunked down beside him however much time later. Though the cabin was roomier than, say, a barrel of salted fish, there wasn’t space for much sprawl, especially if one wished to be seated comfortably. Silver was used to other people, in too-near proximity, breathing and fidgeting, or snoring, or chatting, dreaming, scratching, pretending to be trying to find a coin in their pocket. And he was almost used to being near Flint on a regular basis, to having as part of the peripheral sound around him the restless hands and stifled sighs Flint possessed.

Not so familiar with it that Silver didn’t eventually come to realize Flint had left no gap on the seat between their bodies and was, in fact, pressing himself alongside Silver, as if to align perfectly, or possibly overwhelm entirely.

“Has the fearsome pirate captain had a tiresome evening?” Silver asked in a mild voice, his finger poised at the end of a paragraph. He hoped his voice did not betray how bone-deep happy he was Flint had arrived.

Flint gave a small grunt. He sat up to reach behind them and fiddle with the little door of the lantern Silver had put on the sill. When it was latched to his liking, he came back, one hand pressed to Silver’s hip; Silver covered that hand with his own. Flint, seeming to breathe him in, eyes closed in pleasure, was like a long flare of heat, a candle’s graceful flame stretched long and languid. He threaded his arm behind Silver’s back, a stealthy snake. He transformed once more to pluck his own edition of _Oroonoko_ out of Silver’s grasp, toss the book toward the desk – where it landed heavily, knocking into a plate of hardtack crumbs – and tuck his head at the juncture of Silver’s throat and shoulder, so that Silver was quite enveloped, like a hapless sailor about to be dragged into icy depths by some tentacled monster.

Silver let him rest there for a minute, and suppressed a shiver caused not by cold water but by the warm steady breath at his throat. “ _Are_ you all right?”

Flint lifted his head. “Probably.” He smiled a little smile when Silver huffed and turned into him. “I like discovering you’ve already snuck in here.”

“Yeah?” With his hand splayed flat on Flint’s chest Silver felt Flint’s heart knock against his palm, like a greeting. “As I recall it, I was invited.” His eyes flitted down to Flint’s mouth.

“Ah, well. That you were,” Flint said, before kissing him at first with tentativeness, and then very much without.

It was the only sort of drowning Silver was remotely interested in surrendering to.


	3. love, tease, haunted (29 Oct. 2018)

The rain driven against the hull by haunted wind produced a cadence like that of snare drumming interspersed with a badly out of tune fife, played as if by some grim spectre. Flint felt the apparatus, such as it was, rock slightly beneath them.

“If this boat capsizes in the night, it will be the height of irony, I’d wager.” Silver shivered and tucked himself closer against Flint’s side.

Flint, without thinking, pulled Silver closer still, until Silver’s head rested mostly on this chest. “Reorients itself, do you mean?” Silver hmm’d and nestled in, and Flint found his own fingers itching to tease themselves through the thick of Silver’s curls. “A capsize twice done would seem to be a resolution of uprightness,” Flint said, trying to keep his voice steady.

“As much as I know you love being right,” Silver yawned, “in truth the result is we’d be upside down. And I for one do not believe that would be as comfortable as our current configuration.” He sounded nearly asleep. In the dark Flint could admit his pleasure at being pinned under his heavy head.

They would be salvaged in a few days. He had no doubts about this. The area was too heavily trafficked for their wreck to go unnoticed; all would return to normalcy soon. Silver had somehow slid a hand beneath the riven shirt Flint wore, his palm cool for an instant and then almost undetectable against Flint’s skin but for its weight. If Flint concentrated, he could possibly commit the moment to memory – helical as a snail shell, easily concealed.

“Captain?” Silver said softly. He had raised his head, the dim light glinting off of his eyes as he watched Flint.

“Y–” Flint began, and then Silver pressed his mouth against his.

Flint kissed him back, with so little hesitation he should have been sorry. Silver made a sound almost like he was pained; the heat of it tore through Flint like musket shot. This isn’t real, his mind whispered, though the muscle beneath his hands, the teeth marking his collarbone, did not seem imaginary. In the shelter of the overturned boat, he gave himself over to pretend, to temporary; he discovered every warmth Silver had to impart. Perhaps this, he thought once, with Silver’s pleasure gasped at his ear, was a kind of rescue. 

Outside the rain continued.


	4. revolution, mask, dance (5 Nov. 2018)

“You’re leaving already?” Eleanor’s proto chief of staff, Mr. Guy Whose Name Silver Could Never Remember, had his necktie tied around his head like a tourniquet. “You’re as bad as Flint.” Silver didn’t have time to school his expression into something neutral before Chief yelled, “The revolution is just getting started!” He held a glass of champagne aloft, and a deafening cheer went up from the throng.

When the noise level dipped to decibels just below ‘a Stealth Bomber is flying overhead’ Silver said, “I gotta, you know. Got this new charcoal deep cleansing mask I wanna try out.” He was inching out of the door and tried to look some combination of exhausted yet disappointed to be going so early in the evening.

(He _was_ exhausted and disappointed and it was 12:16 a.m. but whatever.)

Chief was likely going to respond, when behind him on the hall’s little stage the DJ had started spinning Drake and a dance-off had broken out. No sane person of any level of sobriety or inebriation, Silver thought as cold air smacked his back, was prepared to witness Jack Rackham kiki'ing his way across the floor, a Guthrie 2018 bumper-sticker slapped across his chest like a beauty pageant sash.

Silver escaped.

Walking the twenty-two blocks home wasn’t the best decision he ever made, though the cold definitely kept him awake. The air already smelled like winter. Despite the president still being a flaming bag of crap, on the local level Eleanor winning was the kind of good news he truly should have celebrated longer, if– Well, it didn’t matter. She’d make a terrific councilwoman. He concentrated on getting home as quickly as possible, even though his apartment would be dark and empty and it hurt to breathe too deeply. He almost felt better as his front door came into view and then immediately did not.

There was something on fire in his apartment. 

He ran the last block in a frenzy, rushed up the three steps, leg screaming, fumbled his keys, jammed them in the lock, shoved the door open with his shoulder–

And ran smack into Flint. 

“The fuck,” Silver panted, head swimming.

“Hey, you made it,” Flint said cheerfully.

Silver sucked in a giant breath, slammed the door shut, and exhaled while Flint moved away to turn on a lamp. “What’re you. And what’s the.” He stopped to stretch the stitch in his side and the creaking in his bad leg and tried again. “Hi. What the fuck are you doing here?” He squinted at his windowsill and was vaguely aware of Flint circling back around, an expression of artfully concealed amusement on his face. “Where did you even find candles to light?”

“You had some in that junk drawer in the kitchen.” Flint was strolling nearer; Silver could’ve sworn he was five seconds from starting to whistle. He slid his hands onto Silver’s hips and reeled him in. “You don’t remember what I said last night, do you?”

“No?” Silver wrapped his arms around him and pressed his ear to his chest; somewhere in the deep recesses of his brain he recognized his instinct to hold Flint was ridiculous, especially considering– “What did you say last night?” Flint was holding Silver too; Silver shivered from the warmth.

“I said I’ll meet you back here at midnight, and you said the spare keys were by the front door.” Flint pulled away to look at Silver with a benevolent grin Silver kinda wanted to strangle him for and kinda wanted to kiss off his mouth. “And then you fell asleep on me like you’d been hit with a sledge hammer. It took me five minutes to crawl out from beneath you.”

Silver bristled. “I don’t weigh that much.” He was beginning to feel stupider than usual.

Flint dipped to press his forehead against his. “Yeah, you do.” He gazed at Silver with something dawning in his eyes. He said softly, “You thought I snuck out this morning because I regretted what happened." 

"I mean.” Silver squirmed back a little and Flint’s hands slid down to his hips again to keep him close. “It crossed my mind. During the three free seconds I had today.”

“Uh huh. In the three free seconds I had today I wondered why you weren’t responding to texts.”

“That, actually, is because I dropped my phone in the sink – Billy called while I was washing dishes – so Bev is sitting in a jar of rice at present.”

“You call your phone Bev?” Flint was pulling Silver backwards towards the couch and his fingertips had found skin beneath the hem of Silver’s sweater.

“Well, you know, she just looked like a Bev when I bought her.” His dumb banter was halted by Flint’s mouth on his hot as blood. A minute of making out on Flint’s lap later he broke off for oxygen.

Flint kept his nose at Silver’s temple and his restless hands beneath Silver’s sweater. “In case it’s eluded you, I don’t regret last night." 

"Okay,” Silver said, thinking that one morning Flint would regret it, severely, but that was a problem for another time. For now, he put his hands in Flint’s hair and pulled his head down to his mouth again. 

They didn’t move off the couch until the candles snuffed themselves out.


	5. snow, gun, remorse (3 Dec. 2018)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gobs of thanks to [ellelan](http://ellelan.tumblr.com) for the part 2 inspiration. :D

“Who’s got the gun?” Flint said. Spluttered, actually, trying to sit up with a gasp; the pain at his temples suggested it was feasible he was the one who’d been shot. He raised his hands to his head like they could dampen the deafening sound of blood leaking from his ears.

“I think you were dreaming,” Silver screamed, or, possibly, said at a completely normal volume.

The room was blurry, as though filmed through a lens smeared with Vaseline. Silver’s flannels shone through the gloom like red and green beacons. Flint managed to pull himself out of the couch cushions, feeling like he was being buoyed along in some sort of rowboat; there were waves beneath him, threatening to wash him back out to sea. Silver was floating nearer like tacky driftwood, his uncombed hair a riot and his smile somehow not condescending.

“Nice pajamas,” Flint rasped. His mouth tasted like couch cushion and cheap old scotch.

“Thank you.” Silver sat down on the closest windowsill and slowly reeled up the blinds. White light strong as a nuclear detonation – strong as all of Flint’s remorse – filled the room. “Well, it definitely snowed last night.”

Flint would take his word for it because there was no way he could open his eyes again. There was probably some kind of appropriate response he was supposed to give as the other person in the conversation. What came out of his mouth was, “Murggph.”

Silver patted the arm Flint had thrown over his own face. “I’ll make you some coffee.” It sounded like he put down the shade halfway, thank god.

“You don’t drink coffee.”

“That doesn’t mean I can’t make you some.”

Flint lowered his arm in time to see Silver with his crutch headed toward what Flint supposed was the kitchen. “Are your pajamas infested with reindeer?” he asked, because it concerned him that the answer would be yes.

“So you’re super bad at this holiday stuff, yeah?” Silver yelled out.

A groan was as good as a word, but Flint wanted to do better than that. “This isn’t the holidays,” he stated emphatically. “December 4th is not the fucking holidays.”

“Only three weeks to go, Ebenezer.” While something rattled unsupervised in the kitchen like a box of feral cats Silver came back out to lean against a dinner table and wipe his hands on a tea towel patterned in penguins wearing Santa hats.

“Christmas is three whole weeks away, and the first day of Christmas technically doesn’t start until Christmas day itself, and yet I have already heard no fewer than eight godforsaken versions of ‘Have a Holly Jolly Christmas’ no fewer than seven dozen times each in public locations in the last three weeks.” Flint felt the same icy rage that had sent him to the airport bar yesterday rising to the surface, despite the look on Silver’s face. “Tell me that’s not torture as defined by international law. Tell me there isn’t a kid working at Bubba Burgers right now who’s about to go 'round the goddamn bend listening to Michael fucking Buble on a loop and we’ll talk, but–”

“Listen,” Silver interrupted. He bounced down next to Flint like a Tigger who’d learned how to master a real leopard’s sudden lethal pounce. “You don’t have to tell me what it’s like out there this time of year. It’s entirely likely that kid at Bubba’s is gritting his teeth and coping, which is a sight more than you’re doing, because that kid has bills to pay and baby Jesus won’t be leaving a filled stocking where that kid’s squatting this week, okay?” Silver blew out a breath and put his hands on his reindeer’d knees. “I get that you hate this time of year, and you have your reasons, but the rest of the office, myself most especially included, would appreciate it if you could just go take a fucking walk when you get this wound up. Everyone knows Christmas is a lot of racket. Some of us would like to enjoy the corporate gifts anyway.”

The seriousness of his tone was punctuated by the sharp whistle of a kettle. A few minutes later he was giving Flint a mug shaped like a decapitated snowman head filled with something steamy and smelling vaguely of cinnamon.

“Do you even have any coffee?” Flint asked, knowing it would make him sound peevish.

“Nope.” Silver nudged him until he moved over on the couch. “It’s Christmas tea, though. Nice and strong.”

Flint took a sip. It tasted like there were multiple spices in there and the tea was hot like the surface of the sun. He took another few sips. After half a mug he started to feel saner. He chanced glancing at Silver, who was sipping from an overlarge green mug that said 'When I think about you, I touch my elf’ on the side. Flint watched his throat as he swallowed and felt his own throat go dry from it.

“You didn’t have to come fetch me last night,” Flint said, by way of apology.

Silver snorted lightly. “I didn’t fetch you, dipshit. I was at the airport too.”

This was honest news to Flint. “Why?”

“Madi was supposed to come in for a conference. She got stuck at her connection at Logan, but her texts went into the ether for a while, or my phone’s crapping out or something, so I didn’t know until I was already waiting at the other end of Chez 747.”

Flint thought for a moment. “Is she still on her way, or–”

“Nah, the conference is cancelled since half the scientists are stuck in random cities. I think they’re rescheduling for, like, August. Some month when it’s guaranteed not to snow.”

Silver sounded so breezy, Flint thought, you’d never know he was upset at all if you didn’t know him. 

“It’s fine.” Silver sighed, as though Flint had commented. Sighed again. “You were very hostile about that bag last night.” He pointed at Flint’s black and tan carry-on, which was tumped over by the front door.

“I don’t remember–”

“Actually, you were fairly hostile about everything last night. Have you thought about therapy? I’m no expert but you seem like a good candidate for some.”

Flint put down the mug. “I was asked never to return to the Little Sisters of Mercy clinic after a single hour-long session.”

“See, I know you’re joking, but that’s easily the most plausible thing you’ve ever said.” Silver looked at Flint with a smart-ass expression. When Flint shrugged, he shook his head with a little laugh. “You’re welcome to take a shower. There’s plenty of food in the place, too, since I thought, you know. I was already planning to have company for a few days.”

“I should call a taxi.” A taxi, Flint thought, because fuck Uber. He had a vague recollection of having had similar thoughts last night at some point while still at the airport. The idea of going out into the cold and the white did not hold much more appeal now than it had then.

Silver shook his head again. “No-one’s supposed to be on the roads. State of emergency and all that. We’re lucky to have escaped the airport when we did.” At Flint’s frown he continued, “Take a shower and we’ll have brunch. The lights are still on; if you’re hell-bent on doing some work you can use my laptop.”

“I’m sorry to impose–”

“Since when?” Silver levered himself off the couch. “It’s not a problem.”

Flint stood up beside him. It was the worst choice he ever made in his whole life, which was saying something. The room heaved like it was the world’s biggest stomach. He stood there swaying in the surf for what seemed like a solid ten minutes, with only Silver’s hand on his elbow to keep him from being thrown against rough-glass rocks. Flint’s vision finally cleared, and the floor stopped surging.

Silver was standing very near. “Better?” he asked quietly.

“Yeah.”

“I called Gates and told him where you, we, were, by the way–”

“Thank you.”

“–since you hadn’t bothered to do that.”

Flint gave him a level look. “I can’t overstate how much I appreciate your hospitality.”

Silver narrowed his eyes. “You could always try.”

“Bathroom’s down the hall?” Flint parried.

“Yep.”

Flint took five steps away and looked back. Silver was standing there looking at the ceiling as though it would grant him guidance or respite.

“I really,” Flint started, with his throat tight. “I really do appreciate…this.” He gave a little something-like-a-smile. “You.”

Silver held his gaze. “You’re welcome,” he said after a moment. “I’m gonna go start some food.” He turned to go to the kitchen. “Please don’t drown in the tub.”

~

Silver had apparently scrubbed the tub within an inch of its life. Flint climbed in and let boiling water pound his shoulders and lower back. Then he soaped up superfast and rinsed what he hoped was most of the hangover down the drain. He pulled a fluffy towel off a nearby ring and assessed it: it seemed clean and dry. While scrubbing at his hair his inner ear reminded him he wasn’t immune to gravity; he righted himself before he pulled down the shower curtain and hastened his own embarrassing demise.

Out of the tub, he realized that while he’d unpacked toiletries, all his other belongings were still in the hall with his carry-on. He wrapped the towel around his waist and pulled the door open, a puff of steam wafting out with him.

Somewhere in the apartment Michael Buble was imploring one and all to have a merry little Christmas.

“You are such a dick,” Flint called out.

“Let me know if you want me to turn up the music,” Silver called back pleasantly. “Pancakes’ll be ready in five.”

A small stack of folded clothes Flint didn’t recognize were sitting atop his carry-on. When he put his hand on them, they were warm, as if fresh from the dryer. They were, he thought a minute later, scrutinizing himself in the bathroom mirror, truly the ugliest pajamas he could’ve fathomed. Gingerbread men wielding candy canes stared back at him with zombie gumdrop eyes, all the while surrounded by sprigs of holly and polka dots. The drawstring pants and button-down long-sleeved shirt were made entirely of petroleum byproducts and the tears of elves, and they were the softest, most comfortable things Flint had ever worn.

When Flint wandered out, Silver said, “Aw, look at you, all cozy and festive.” He sat two loaded plates down on the living room coffee table. “Those seem to be a perfect fit.”

Flint decided not to respond to that. He took a seat and Silver sat beside him, the shifting cushions bringing him closer. Flint wondered if one of them should just sit in a chair, but Silver was putting his foot on the coffee table without hesitation, in complete comfort. His furry sock had a pattern of tree-light-covered cacti all over it. He lifted up his plate of pancakes and dug in, humming a little note of happiness. It took literally every ounce of Flint’s hard won sanity to keep from surrounding him with his arms and hugging him.

Instead, he asked, “Do you have a bottomless drawer of Christmas-themed pajamas, or…?”

“As a matter of fact, those were a gift.”

“Which arch-nemesis of yours gave you more Christmas pajamas?”

Silver scooted a small pitcher in his direction. “No, I mean, I bought them to give as a gift.”

“Ah.” Flint fixed up his pancakes. “You didn’t have to offer them to me. I should pay you for them.” It wasn’t any of his business, but he said, “Who were you going to give them to?”

He was busy chewing a mouthful of surprisingly tender pancakes, so it took him a beat to realize Silver was looking at him with an exasperated expression.

“What?” Flint asked, a split-second before the answer dawned on him. _“Oh.”_ He swallowed. The pancakes were great; he was pretty sure the swooping, elated feeling in his stomach was due to something else entirely. “Gag gift, yeah? ‘Cause you know how much I hate the holidays.”

“Well, the green of the holly really brings out your eyes,” Silver noted, unrepentant. “Also, you’re a grouchy charlatan about some stuff. _That’s_ what I actually know about you.” He waved his fork around. “And furthermore–”

Furthermore, he tasted like maple syrup when Flint kissed him.


	6. Wine, paper, lock (26 Nov. 2018)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Wine, paper, lock (originally: 26 Nov. 2018, posted on tumblr 25 April 2019)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> modern au

The two hours vanished from beneath Flint like a dream: one minute he was stepping into his kitchen, where the fresh scrubbed counters were laden with trays of meticulous plastic-sword-skewered meatballs, mushroom puffs, snappy cheese wafers, and little bowls of butter-toasted pecans, and the next he was shaking hearty hands in gracious goodbye to the head of the board of trustees, who had offered to set up a new meeting first thing Monday to reopen the tuition case. 

Door closed, lock clicked into place. Apartment empty, save for one last caterer washing dishes in the sink. 

Flint had spoken to everyone, and everyone had been charming, witty, smiling; no bad blood, all good faith. Plenty of compliments on the food and wine, plenty of back slaps about the protests. The right noises and politics, and the right calls to arms. Solidarity. It filled Flint with pride to work amongst such kindness. And why had he worried his coworkers would linger? On the wall the clock said 9:09 p.m., god bless the common sense of the working class.

He turned. At his sink the caterer with the curls and the very blue eyes was humming to himself and Flint took a moment to enjoy the tune and the view. The silence must have been a clue; the caterer looked over his shoulder and caught Flint’s eye. One amused eyebrow, like he’d been caught telling a dirty joke.

Flint looked up, for whatever reason, and that’s when he noticed the brightly colored paper banner, strung across the cut-out that connected the dining room to the kitchen. The banner proclaimed a single blunt message: “Please Leave By 9.”

“Er,” Flint said, for lack of a faster reaction, knowing the caterer was watching.

“Seemed appropriate, considering how stressed out you were a couple of hours ago,” the caterer said, shrugging. 

Flint stood staring. The entire evening now had a different tint. “You put that up there?”

“I did.” The caterer pulled the plug out of the sink and the sink gave up a loud blurble.

“Thank you?” Flint wasn’t sure he was grateful. It was only 9:10 p.m., now, and he had all weekend to figure out how to ever look his coworkers in the face ever again.

The caterer was drying his hands on a dishtowel and walking toward Flint with his slightly odd gait. He seemed none the worse for wear after a hard afternoon of tiny-food prep and some torturous open bar-tending. His chef’s jacket had been discarded and he’d rolled up the sleeves of his white shirt; the collar was open at the throat, almost carelessly. Flint felt something about the banner warranted complaint, but he was busy being transfixed by–

“I’ll load the van with the trays and rented glasses and be out of here in a jif,” the caterer said. “Won’t take me five minutes.”

“Good,” Flint nodded, after clearing his throat. There was something expectant in the caterer’s expression. “Do I pay you or–”

“No, no, you settle up with Max when she invoices you.”

“Well. Good." 

The caterer looked at him levelly. For some reason the steadiness of this man’s eye contact, and the smile that threatened on his mouth, made Flint want to drop to his knees.

"Would you like me to take down the banner before I go?” the caterer asked.


	7. tradition, captive, labor (3 Sept. 2018)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _tradition, captive, labor (originally: 3 Sept. 2018, posted tumblr 18 March 2019)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Seedlings](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15079079) verse (consider it an outtake)

Silver sliced into the lemon Flint had handed him. “Is this going to make the whole house smell like fish?" 

Flint was making voodoo gestures over the skillet. "Yes.”

“This is a very small house,” Silver said, keeping an outright whiny tone in reserve.

“We’ll open all the windows for a few minutes after we eat.”

“It’s snowing again.”

“Luckily for you, you recently purchased a new furnace that should eliminate any chill which may temporarily pervade your homestead.” Flint tipped the skillet off the burner a little; Silver could see the hot oil shimmering in the pan. “Perfect. All right. You watching?”

Silver put down his knife and licked lemon juice off his fingers. Regretted licking lemon juice off his fingers. Walked over and stood by Flint as Flint laid the two pieces of salmon into the pan slowly, skinless side down. Everything sizzled and the smell of fried seafood was instantly inescapable. 

“And?” Silver asked, watching the orangey little steaks begin to turn a lighter shade of pink.

“Sprinkle on some salt.”

Silver grabbed the cellar and scattered a pinch of salt on top of each steak.

“You let the top crisp, then you flip.”

“How do you know when the top’s crisped?”

“Common sense, mostly." 

Flint patiently watched the fish spit for seven years and Silver thought about screaming. Finally, Flint picked up a metal spatula he’d brought and waved it around like a fancy samurai chef. 

"Here,” he said, giving Silver the spatula. “Slide it under carefully, okay, okay, you’re doing fine, now flip. Flip it into the pan.”

“This is stressful,” Silver commented. The salmon badly wanted to fall into a million fishy pieces on his somewhat clean floor, he could tell, but he labored to get both steaks flipped onto their backs and still in the skillet. “How much longer?”

“Medium?” Flint asked. His eyebrow made it seem like a trick question.

“Yes?” Silver said.

“You don’t want dry fish,” Flint explained.

“I guess?”

“Less than a minute. You got something we can put these on?”

Silver took two plates off the shelf.

“Perfect.” Flint turned off the burner. He watched Silver fumble one steak onto each plate, then put the skillet in the sink. “Nice job.”

Silver stood there holding the plates and feeling like the salmon was judging him. “Okay.”

“Now we eat,” Flint said, taking one plate and grinning.

“This was suspiciously easy,” Silver said a minute later. Fresh squeezed lemon juice neutralized some of the fishiness, and the salmon was moist inside, with a good crust. 

Flint made an agreeing noise. 

“Think I could make this by myself sometime?” Silver asked.

“Oh, no. There’s a decent chance you, on your own, would die in a grease fire trying that. Actually, you wouldn’t even have to be cooking anything, just – you seem like a person to whom that could happen at any given time, any given day.” Flint’s voice was mild, and his eyes like a shark’s.

“Hmm,” Silver said, swallowing a bite of broccoli salad. “I’ll take that under advisement.” He ate some more dinner, basked in its unholy wholesomeness. “Guess the smart thing for me to do would be, have you help me with dinner most nights. Start a tradition.” The words came out of his mouth very much without his permission.

Flint watched him for a moment, like a captive audience, then picked up his knife and fork again. “That could be a plan,” he said, returning to his own meal. A dimple showed in his cheek.

He was really far more polite than Silver deserved most of the time.


	8. villain, water, book (1 Oct. 2018)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _villain, water, book (originally: 1 Oct. 2018, posted tumblr 28 March 2019)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Seedlings](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15079079) verse, post story

Silver sat on the edge of the tub and swung his legs into it. Flint leaned against his right thigh, and Silver ran a hand over Flint’s damp hair.

“Glad to see you’ve retained the ability to read,” Silver noted, “though I would’ve thought undressing first would’ve been the more pressing matter.”

Flint closed his book ( _The British and French in the Atlantic 1650-1800: Comparisons and Contrasts_ ; Silver fell asleep reading the title to himself) and let it drop to the dry tile with a loud bang. He squinted up at Silver.

“How are you feeling?” Silver asked.

“Better, I suppose.” Flint blinked a little. “Generally, I mean. My face hurts quite a lot.”

“Once again, I’m sorry the bucket slipped.”

Flint sighed loudly, breath warm on Silver’s thigh where his cutoffs had bunched upwards. “That isn’t how it works,” Flint said. “‘Slipped’ makes it sound like the bucket was walking along and didn’t see the banana peel on the pavement. You threw a bucket at my head. Like a villain fleeing a crime scene.”

“I was throwing a bucket of water at your head – the water in the bucket – and–”

“And?” Flint had sat back, smirking.

“I let go of the bucket accidentally.” Silver gingerly touched the half-moon bruise that had purpled beneath Flint’s left eye. “Emphasis on accident.”

Flint curled his fingers around Silver’s wrist. “Could you just come down here, please?”

With a huge amount of difficulty Silver put himself in the tub beside Flint and let Flint spoon around him. Silver kissed the bruise as softly as possible. “I’m really very sorry.”

“It’s fine.”

“Also you were getting all wound up there in the yard from heat stroke or heat exhaustion or disco inferno madness or whatever, and I was just trying to throw some water, literally, on the fire–”

He hadn’t noticed Flint reaching for the faucet. They were suddenly sitting beneath world’s narrowest, iciest rainstorm.

“I should have let you die in the garden,” Silver said through a mouthtful, “from the fucking sun.”

“Yeah.” Flint turned off the faucet. He was just as soaked as Silver. “Oh no.”

“What?” Silver wrung out his hair and flicked his hands at Flint.

Flint wiped his eyes; a reasonable expression was left behind. “Your clothes are all wet.”

“Yes.”

“It’s a terrible shame.” The showerhead dribbled an agreeing splurt upon Flint’s shoulder.

“Yes. Your clothes are also all wet.” Silver felt only a bit guilty this time.

“Again.”

“Yes.”

“We might catch cold. If, you know. If we don’t remove them in a timely fashion.” Flint’s poker face, Silver had to admit, was astonishingly good.

Silver gave him a look of pure innocence. “Would you mind helping me remove them?”

~

update: Flint did not mind.


	9. past, honest, travel (10 Sept. 2018)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _past, honest, travel (originally: 10 Sept. 2018, posted tumblr 24 March 2019)_

The windowsill was not really wide enough for anyone to sit on comfortably, which was one reason Silver wrapped his arms around Flint and dragged him backwards onto their bed. Flint sighing under Silver’s hands established the other reason. 

Flint grumbled a little laughter. “Your hair is a lot to contend with sometimes.”

Silver lifted his head from beneath Flint’s chin. “And yet you have your fingers in it right now.”

“I’m trying not to drown.”

“Oh?” Propped on one elbow Silver squinted at Flint and then waggled an eyebrow when Flint didn’t answer.

Flint looked away with a wry smile. “I wasn’t moping.”

Silver nudged his temple with his nose. “All right.”

Flint’s hand tightened in his hair; when he caught Silver’s mouth with his own the kiss started fiercely, almost a warning, turning sweeter when Silver refused to be frightened away.

A tear traveled from the corner of Flint’s eye when he pulled away. “You’re such a pest,” he said without any malice.

“Your honesty is truly an asset.” Silver wiped away the wet trail with his thumb. “You’ve been thinking about someone." 

Flint gave a small shrug. "Just… From a long time ago. Not Thomas,” he clarified.

“Ah. Someone else you lost?”

“In a way.” Flint had his fingers in Silver’s hair again. 

“Does it help? Thinking of the unchangeable past. Even when it hurts you.” Silver swallowed against a lump in his throat.

Flint looked at him a long moment. “It has its uses. I know,” he said, his thumb catching the flesh of Silver’s lower lip, “you do not subscribe to such philosophies.”

“I prefer others,” Silver agreed softly, and set to proving it.


	10. celebrate, dream, melody (31 Dec. 2018)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _celebrate, dream, melody (originally: 31 Dec. 2018, posted tumblr 1 January 2019)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> canon-era au

Flint should have known the men would celebrate, their cheers and a spattering of gunshots marking midnight as loudly as possible. He remained at the rail adjacent his cabin door, blustering wind carrying the men’s voices out onto the water and away, and waited for the distinctive rhythm of peg on wood.

“I know, I know,” Silver said as he approached after a few minutes. “You disapprove of the cacophony." 

"It’s all right. Though it isn’t officially the new year for another three months,” Flint said, keeping his eyes on the waves tipped in white, like a frilly skirt flipped up at the hem.

“Nevertheless.” Silver joined him by the rail. The heat from his body reached Flint a moment later. “You must admit January 1st feels like an appropriate time to throw off the shackles of the old year, reflect on one’s actions, and take stock of the months to come.”

“‘Reflect on one’s actions’?” Flint asked with more than a little skepticism. “How have you faired in such introspection?” From the corner of his eye he saw Silver smile and look down for a second, before turning to watch Flint fully.

“I find myself hale as a hare, Captain. A man of some influence, I believe you could call me; a quartermaster of distinction, perhaps.” Silver put his hand over his heart. “Why, just before coming here I was patted on the back and called friend by no fewer than twenty loyal ruffians. They filleth my cup with brotherly kindness and fine rum. I am honored to be in their service, and as for the year ahead, it glitters like a horizon of golden coins.” He dropped his hand. “We will make them princes of the new world, won’t we.”

His dark eyes did not shine the way they should have, had he been wholly convinced of his claims. The sight set something shivering in Flint’s chest. Silver moved closer anyway, until by virtue of the ship rocking his body met Flint’s at a half-dozen points Flint couldn’t help but notice, wishing not to; wanting for nothing more than to take the most detailed inventory. In a flash he imagined what it would be like to put cool fingertips to all of those places, uncovered, on Silver’s body: a pointed elbow, the mangled remnant of knee. A bare hipbone pressed like a holy relic into Flint’s palm.

“Your skills mastering cuisine should also be considered,” Flint forced himself to say, “as they have improved over the months to the point, I dare wager, you may one day be a sought-after cook. 'His sturgeon pye,’ they’ll say, 'is worth joining Flint’s crew just for the chance of experiencing it.’”

“Well,” Silver said, very dry, very near, “that’ll always be the dream.”

Below deck the men had begun to sing something with a warbling, winding melody, a low tune of loves lost at sea. Somehow Silver’s rough hand was laid warm and real upon the back of Flint’s neck and Flint leaned toward him without meaning to, his gaze falling on Silver’s mouth.

“Happy new year, Captain,” Silver said and closed the gap, kissing him softly. Softly, with a hum in his throat; insistently, as though it was not an accident.

There should be words, Flint thought, kissing him back, bringing him into his arms; there should be a way to stop this before it is all ruined.

But between kisses Silver whispered “I’m here” and “Hello” and “It’s just me,” and Flint could say nothing to halt any of it, he felt starvation now like a wild storm, like a fatal strike from a sword across his spine, and kept his mouth on Silver’s until the panic in his mind fell away. It didn’t seem like Silver could speak either, after a time. The air was ever colder around them and hot like sunlight where they touched. To break apart caused Flint an almost physical pain. He opened the cabin door and looked inside, breathing shallowly as if it could slow his racing heart.

Silver took two steps inside. He held out his hand.

Flint took it, and locked the door behind them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- the beginning of the legal new year wasn’t changed to 1 January in England until 1752. Of course, they’re not in England, but anyhoo
> 
> \- one of Silver’s lines was pilfered from Bart Simpson lol


	11. tactile, impulse, heavy (10 Dec. 2018)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _tactile, impulse, heavy (originally: 10 Dec. 2018)_

Silver hardly recognized what Flint was attempting to do until they were almost completely horizontal on the wide window seat in the cabin. Flint made himself like a wall behind which Silver was sheltered: he pressed his hand on Silver’s hip every so often, a tactile reminder to Silver that they were both present, there in the quiet.

When Silver finally tried to speak, he found he possessed no words for the task. He reached up between their bodies to touch the edge of Flint’s eye, where his eyelashes were as delicate as copper spun like silk thread. Flint dipped his head to whisper “Hello” against his mouth with just the smallest smile. For a moment Silver could not bear to be seen with such clarity. His limbs prickled. Black coldness sat on his chest heavy as a fist he couldn’t dodge.

But Flint was running his fingers into Silver’s hair, gently. His thumb caught the pulse in Silver’s throat, traced it over and over. Silver didn’t move away, despite the impulse to. After awhile the urge to cringe, hide, escape, began to fade. Flint’s small smile returned.

Silver took his hand, held it tight. He thought, _I could be a place of safety for him too._ He still could not speak aloud, yet somehow, the way Flint looked at him said he knew. He’d heard; he agreed. Silver felt the startling truth of it settle around them like a well-woven blanket, and Flint’s mouth on his again, warm as blood.


	12. Owl, horizon, scream (24 Sept. 2018)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Owl, horizon, scream (originally: 24 Sept. 2018)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [A certain knot of peace](https://archiveofourown.org/series/909135) verse

In the narrow space between the bed and the window, the top and only the top of Silver’s head was visible.

“Everything all right?” Flint asked while working his way around the edge of the mattress.

A pillow flew out at him like an owl pursuing a hare, complete with a few white feathers puffing up into the air. He caught the pillow before it could smack him.

“Five pillows.” Silver braced a hand beside the window frame and made a noise like he was squelching the urge to scream while he pried himself upward. “Thomas had five pillows stuffed under there.”

“That’s…odd,” Flint said. There were two pillows on the bed already.

“Three of these are mine,” Silver said.

Flint gave a tiny cough to cover up the laugh threatening to burst out at the scowl on Silver’s face, then said, “I’m sure he didn’t mean–”

“Of course he didn’t.” Silver bent over to pull up the other pillows, each of which he plonked on the mattress. “He did this entirely while asleep, and will have no memory of it, but the fact remains, he is an unrepentant pillow thief.” The feathers settled. Silver sighed. “Though what his stashing them under the bed means, I have no idea.”

“Maybe he thought they were something else.”

What Flint wanted to ask was, Why didn’t either of us wake up while Thomas was stealing pillows? It did not seem a safe question to voice aloud just yet.

Silver distractedly said, “The only thing I’ve ever kept under a bed are boots. Everything else is too vulnerable to infestation unless it’s in a shallow box or barrel.”

“Well, if he didn’t think they were pillows, perhaps he also didn’t think under the bed was under the bed.” Flint put up his hands in the universal gesture of Who knows?

Silver punched at one of the pillows lightly; more feathers puffed out like little breaths. “If the number of times he’s walking around in the darkest hours of the morn utterly beyond himself has increased.” He chewed his lower lip. “Should we be concerned?”

Flint thought that yes, maybe they should be. But Silver being worried about Thomas also made Flint feel hopeful, even if now was not the right time to say so.

“We should try to keep a closer eye on him, at night,” Flint said.

Silver cocked an eyebrow. “Sleeping in shifts?”

Flint stepped into the narrow space and slipped his arms around him. “No. Well, not yet anyway. Just. Maybe one of us should be less of a light sleeper.”

“I’m the one who found him in the garden, if you recall.” Silver leaned into Flint, his hands on Flint’s waist. “And headed out onto the stoop. And that time he was restacking the woodpile in the kitchen.”

“I meant me,” Flint said, only slightly defensive. “I’m the one who should pay more attention.”

“Uh huh.” Silver kissed his cheek and tucked his face against Flint’s throat.

“Also, those incidents notwithstanding, you tend to sleep like the dead.” Flint drew him nearer, liking the way Silver fit in his embrace. “He and I could be doing all manner of things and you’d never know.”

“That is disturbing to consider.” Silver’s tone, and the way he pressed closer, belied his comment.

Flint enjoyed holding him for a moment.

“Gentlemen, why do we have here so many pillows?” Thomas asked in his ear a second later.

Flint and Silver jerked apart. Flint swore, and Silver almost lost his balance, his left hand landing in the center of a particularly fat pillow. Feathers shot up like oats tossed at a wedding party. He regained his balance by swinging the pillow directly into Flint’s face.

“Oof,” Flint said, but Thomas had already avenged him.

In a minute a lazy snowstorm of feathers was floating down and everyone was on the floor: Flint with his back against a bedpost, Thomas against the wall, Silver sitting perpendicular to him with his good leg flung over Thomas’s lap. Flint spit out feather particles. Silver picked feathers out of his curls. Thomas dug a few out of his own shirt collar and Silver’s. A horizon drew nearer, where Thomas wandering around in his sleep at night would have to be addressed. Flint knew this. Still, as he watched Silver and Thomas give each other sly smiles, he put the future to the back of his mind and marveled, silently, at his astonishing present luck.


End file.
